April 11, 2006


“Dude. Sweet. Dude. Sweet.” I was lulled from my comatose state by the words. I was laying on my jungle green sofa. The window was open and a cool breeze gently carried the words to my ear. “Dude. Sweet.” What was this mysterious message ceasing my reverie, pulling me gently from the lethargic realm of Morpheus and Hypnos?

Too tired to move, I tipped my head back, viewing the adjacent building’s rooftop, but upside down. “Dude. Sweet.” A terrible sight assaulted my senses. Was I still dreaming? I gasped and rolled off the sofa, landing on my knees. The pain confirmed me of my wakened state. “Dude. Sweet.” A crappy chalk mural had been drawn on a brick section of the adjacent apartment’s rooftop ledge. “Dude. Sweet!” And the entire rooftop was suddenly infested with Hipsters!


As though I were in the fourth circle of Hell, or Williamsburg, a dozen of the hippest Hipsters you’ve ever seen idled aimlessly on the rooftop directly across from our apartment’s living room window. “Dude. That mural is going to be totally sweet.” One of the Hipsters, a bushy headed youth lackadaisically offered. His friend, a wallet chain wearing artist furiously pouring his skill into the magenta brick, didn’t reply. He focused on his illustration while a girl, the only one, squatted at the edge of the roof, braiding daisies into her greasy locks of dark hair.

Two of the Hipsters stood close together. Both decked out in snow caps and Members Only jackets. They passed between them something which I suspected to be marijuana. I put on my shoes and told Bryce I was going to our roof!

I went to the refrigerator and got a beer . . . then I went to the roof!!

On my opposing rooftop, I imagined I was Jane Goodall. Me and the clan of Hipsters, we’d lounge together in the green jungle canopy. Lanky Skyler, lookin “phat” in his Masters of the Universe ripped hoodie and vintage Converse sneaks would lay across my khaki clad thighs and look deeply into my eyes, seeking some form of communication. Behind me, precocious Juniper, the clan's only female, would braid flowers into a wreath to place on my stubbly dome. I’d protect these cherished darlings from the harsh realities of the world; the horrible world apart from Urban Outfitters and the L train.

One day I'd meekly offer “Sweet... Dude...” and the Hipsters would madly clap their hands with glee! Communication! We are more alike than either of us ever realized. But no. Instead I hid behind a stucco concrete fixture and spied on the wee creatures as they frolicked unwittingly for my amusement.

By now the artist had ended his commission. It honestly isn’t very sweet, dude. I wish I had a photo. Perhaps I’ll take one for my report. Either boredom or (apparently) lack of artistic merit doomed the project from the onset. All that remains is a crude white chalk outline of a cubic face with a few stray strokes for hair and a grimace. Hmm? Were they drawing me?

As a dandy, I strive to find beauty in all art. Perhaps if I looked at that sketch with the eyes of a scientist, not an artist? For example, what do anthropologists see in the rudimentary cave drawings of the Neanderthal? I used science where art had failed me ... and found beauty, astounding beauty infact! It was childlike in its simplicity, stunningly so.

I continued to sit there, entranced in a "hip"notic state, until I realized just how boring these Hipsters were. I was hoping they'd break dance or hop on po-go sticks, something, anything painfully retro-tastic.

Alas, no such luck.

Without the drawing to entertain them, most returned inside their building via a tiny stairwell shack. Leaving only "Juniper" and the two Marijuana guys. And when the three of them failed to start making out (again, no such luck), I chugged my beer and descended back into my own apartment, back to my green sofa, and back into my dreams.


Stefanie said...

Maybe if you'd thrown them a Pogo-Ball or an Etch-A Sketch Animator.

Foxy said...

The rats are much worse than the hipsters in Williamsburg.

bryce said...

I wouldn't call them hipsters. Unless burnout stoners with shaggy hair and baggy pants are what hipsters are these days. They looked "mall-ternative" to me.

Aaron said...

Bryce might actually be right. How can this person be a Hipster if she is not wearing ironic, squared framed "geek" glasses? Also, she would be in a mini-skirt and striped or Argyle knee-high stockings worn as a parody ... of something. I don't know what.

Foxy said...

"Bryce might actually be right". Like that is so hard to fathom? Loves it.